Echoes of Dark and Light (38 page)

I felt ashamed and embarrassed, though not quite sure why. Maybe because I had failed. Failure wasn’t something at which I excelled. I had failed at keeping my identity a secret; I had failed to find my brother.
Had I failed myself in my delusional belief that he still lived?
My spirits fell into a nightmarish pit deeper and darker than the blasted crater. Depression ate away at my soul, consuming far more than the war ever had. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle; movement required extreme effort. Crawling out of my bedroll in the morning proved harder than facing an entire army of angry Rebels.

Woody’s folks sent train fare, and he caught a train home as soon as he felt up for travel. His spirits hovered good to middlin’, not bad considering. He looked forward to turning back into a farmer, not worried at all about his limitations of only one hand. At least, not openly worried. Captain Truckey gave me permission to escort him to the station. Thankfully, Toby said his goodbyes at the hospital tent. Woody never again brought up the subject of my eyes, pretty or otherwise, so maybe his earlier comment had resulted from trauma. But he did say something else that surprised me. He leaned down from the soot-coated window, shouting over the train’s hissing steam and departing whistle.

“Bobbi, whatever’s going on between you and Toby, you need to fix it and quick. The two of you need each other.”

Before I could ask him what he meant, or rebuke him for invading my privacy, the massive iron wheels began churning, propelling the train out of the station. I watched as the smoke poofed from the chimney, leaving a trail drifting into the sky, the chug-chug-chug intensifying as the train picked up speed.

Over the next couple of months, we engaged in a few more skirmishes such as Weldon Railroad, Peebles’ Farm and Boydton Plank Road, sometimes gaining and sometimes loosing ground around Petersburg. We did manage to cut off railroad contact with Wilmington, North Carolina, forcing the Rebs to haul in supplies by wagon. Despite the battles, the days besieging the city dragged on slower than a sleepy slug on a Sunday afternoon.

I contemplated leaving the army. But leave to go where? I couldn’t face Emma and my family back home as such a failure and a fool. They believed in me to stay until I’d finished the job, finding Robert. I couldn’t crawl home empty handed with my tail tucked, face them and confess that I’d been completely wrong, that Robert was indeed gone…

I started volunteering for some of the optional and oftentimes more dangerous tasks, like scouting into Rebel territory. Every time my hand went up, I felt Toby’s disapproving and concerned gaze following me. But to his credit, he never said a word. Good thing. With the dark mood I’d fallen into, no telling what I might have done.

That’s how I found myself picking carefully across the littered battlefield following a rather unsuccessful skirmish. I’d volunteered to scour the site looking for any soldiers still alive, or more likely, retrieving firearms and ammunition off the dead.
Doesn’t sound too dangerous?
Throw in a handful of armed Rebs doing the same thing. But I didn’t care a wit about the potential dangers. I welcomed the risk, maybe as a punishment for my failures. Maybe I’d have more success finding Robert in Heaven.

The early morning hours lay thick with a drowning fog. The curtains and ropes of mist danced slowly around me, cutting off sight and sound, swirling, draping, disorientating. I stepped lightly, slowly, skirting the edge of the battlefield, senses straining for clues, Colt clamped securely in my hand. Dampness invaded every surface, every cranny, crawling up under my clothes; water droplets clung to my eyelashes like tears.

Hidden objects slowly revealed themselves, merging out of the mist to announce their presence, mere inches from my feet. Sounds muffled unrecognizably from shifting directions unknown. Looming up beside me, a skeleton of a tree continued to ooze smoke from its fiery death. Its blackened limbs reaching out for light, for life. Woven to its farthest tips, a spider toiled quickly spinning a new web, water droplets clinging to the fine strands like silken threads of luminous pearls.

I froze as voices drifted over in the thick air. Rebels? Union? Ghosts? But the sounds dispersed, shrouding me in silence once more. Silence surrounded me, pressing painfully on my ears. Another step, a flutter of feathers burst in my face as the startled owl’s silent wings beat the air for a safer refuge. Looking down on the ground, I found the remains of his nighttime hunting, a half-eaten squirrel. I tried to quiet my heartbeat as I moved farther along the sideline.

My foot stepped on something soft. I bent down slowly, cautiously reaching to see with my fingertips. A soldier, indistinguishable as to Rebel or Union, but life definitely gone. I scanned the area as the mist swirled temporarily, but I saw nothing left of value, except maybe to the mother waiting back home to bury her son.

Before I could continue, a vise clamped tightly around my ankle. I bit down on my lip to muffle my gasp, pointing my Colt into the swirling sea of the misty, unseen nightmare.

“Help me,” a weak voice drifted up through the fog.

I quickly dropped to my knees, keeping my Colt close just in case. The wounded Rebel curled up defensively on his side, tattered and mismatched uniform soaked in blood. His white face contorted in pain, gasped for relief.

Unfortunately, I’d seen enough battlefield wounds to know he wouldn’t live. But I couldn’t just walk away from him. I gently pride his fingers from my ankle.

“Soldier, my name is Bobbi. Just try to relax and keep breathing.” I didn’t lie to him with a useless “you’ll be okay.” Even a Rebel deserved better than that.

“Please—”

“Try not to talk,” I suggested, starting to feel useless and wishing Cora stood next to me. I stowed my Colt in my waistband and pulled off my coat. Draping it over his thin, bloody body seemed like such an ineffective thing to do. Maybe I should run back to camp and get help. I started to climb to my feet.

“Listen, I’m going for help. You stay here—”

“No, don’t…don’t go.” The efforts to form words seemed exhausting.

I relented, easing back down to the cold, damp ground. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. No one would follow me back out here for a dying Reb. No one except maybe Cora and Toby, and Cora had her hands full at the hospital tent. As for Toby, I hadn’t talked to him, or even met his eyes in forever.

“Please…”

I leaned in closer to hear his faint words.

“Please…a favor…”

My heart jumped as the possibility to do something, anything, instead of squatting there helplessly while he died. “What can I do for you? Water? Do you want some water?”

His tongue slid out to lick his chapped lips. “No time. I…I’m busted up something awful inside.” He paused to catch his failing breath.

I waited impatiently, knowing the seconds slipped away too fast.

“Please bury me…”

Confused, I waited for more.

“Bury me before anyone finds out.”

I didn’t contradict him. He knew. I knew and he knew he didn’t have much time left.

“Um, I’m sure your army will take care of that, or um, ship you home to your family—”

“No!”

Startled, I jerked back, alarmed at his fervor.

“No,” he repeated, quieter that time. “No one must find out; they’d be so ashamed.”

I leaned in closer, brushing the matted hair out of his eyes. His big brown eyes with thick, dark lashes, his high cheekbones and delicately snubbed nose…

No,
her
delicately snubbed nose!

“You’re a girl!” I whispered.

She winced as if my words shot through her gut like the musket balls that already had, but she didn’t deny it.

“My mama would be so ashamed…” A single tear fell from her eye, tracking down her filthy cheek.

“But, maybe your family would want to know.”

“If mama found out…never forgive…disowned.”

“But she should be proud! Her daughter standing alongside her fellow countrymen, brave and true, for something she believes in so strongly as to risk life and limb!”

The soldier slowly shook her head, grimacing, closing her eyes at the pain. “You…you’ve never met the woman.”

I stared down at her, as she gasped for a ragged breath. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth.
She so easily could be me.
I sucked in a lungful of air, as if her difficulty breathing had become contagious.

“I will bury you and keep your secret, if that is your wish.”

A minute trace of tension eased from her face.

“But, in return, you must do something for me.”

With effort, she opened her eyes and turned to meet mine.

“Be proud of yourself.”

A small smile eased her cracked, dried lips. “I am.” The air whispered out of her body, and was gone.

I did as I promised, finding a peaceful, secluded spot back in the forest beneath a sugar maple tree. As I dug a hole, using my bayonet and bare hands, I wondered how many more women fought alongside the men in this bloody war. A handful? A hundred? Did they feel shame or pride? They deserved the hailings of heroes.
But did that include me?
My feelings of failure slowly leaked out of my heart with each handful of dirt flung to the side. I, too, stood shoulder to shoulder and face to face with some of the bravest Americans I’d ever met. Marching straight into a volley of musket fire and cannon balls, carrying our flags high, never flinching, never failing in our beliefs and our spirit.

As I carefully rolled the dead female soldier into her grave, I realized that the only way I’d be a failure is if I gave up without giving my all. And I hadn’t yet done that.

Muscles aching with effort, yet heart feeling a bit lighter than it had in months, I stood back surveying the mounded dirt. The rising sun began to burn away the thick mist, assisted by a chilly breeze blowing through the trees. It hinted at the winter to come, dislodging a handful of scarlet leaves that drifted and danced down to gently settle on top of the fresh grave. I felt I needed to do more, but I didn’t even know her name. I dug around in the underbrush, finding a couple of suitable chunks of wood. Using my last good boot lace, I lashed the two limbs together forming a cross. Then I
pulled
out my knife and carefully began to carve. I stuck the cross into the fresh dirt, whispered goodbye and started back to camp.

The cross read ‘A Brave Soldier.’

“Hey, Rivers!”

I looked up at the sound of my name. A group if off duty soldiers stood off to the side in an abandoned field.

“Come join us,” he yelled. “We need another body!”

Poor choice of words
, I thought as I ambled over to them. I recognized most of the fellows, but didn’t know all of their names.

“Hey, Buford.” I nodded to the others. “What’s going on?”

“You ever play baseball?” Buford asked. “We’re getting a game on and need another person.”

“Yeah, I’ve played before with my brothers, though I’m not real sure on all the rules.”

“Not a problem,” Buford said, grinning. He held up a pamphlet titled “Rules and Regulations of the Knickerbocker Base Ball Club, 1845.”

I shrugged. “Why not.” With the heavy load I’d been hauling around since the Crater easing away, I felt an unfamiliar spark of energy glowing in my gut. A game could be fun.

“Great! You’ll be on Toby’s team,” he said, pointing.

I followed his finger to find Toby approaching the group carrying a long heavy stick and a ball-like object.

Oh, Toby.

I heaved a great sigh, and then with resignation, followed half of the fellows out into the middle of the field where Toby stood. I guessed I couldn’t avoid him forever. He deserved better than that. As I arrived with the others at the pitcher’s spot, I reluctantly met his eyes. He paused, his gaze boring into my soul, and then he gave a slow nod and turned to the rest of the team to assign positions. He didn’t say a word to me except, “Rivers, second base.” I guessed our inevitable confrontation would take place post game time.

Toby took the pitcher’s mound— a flat field rock with relatives at the four bases— and began throwing the ball around the field for warm up practice. Catching the ball at second base left a sting on my bare hands, and I gave it a quick examination before hurling the ball in to home. It appeared to be a fist-sized rock wrapped in rags; my brothers and I had used something similar.